JON | RHAEGAR
Jon of Clearwater stood for a moment at the bend of the uphill path, letting the wind ruffle his hair which was now cut neater than when he was still Jaime's personal guard. He squinted, not because of the glare, but because of the amazement that never ceased every time he gazed at the expanse of the city down there.
Lannisport glittered under the morning sun. Colorful rooftops, busy cobblestone streets, and a harbor crowded with ship masts, everything looked like a living painting. In the distance, Casterly Rock towered arrogantly, a stone giant guarding all this wealth.
The view was breathtaking, but what was more amazing to Jon was the reality that he could stand here, on this high ground, not as a servant carrying his master's goods, but as a man with purpose, land, and his own status.
He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the air of freedom, then continued his steps. His leather boots were of the best quality, comfortable for long walks, crunching crisply on the gravel. His destination was the large stone building that had just been erected on a flatter slope of the hill: The Lannisport Printing House.
While walking uphill, his mind drifted to the past.
His life had changed so much since two years ago. The change was so drastic that sometimes Jon felt he was living someone else's life. Two years ago, he was just 'Jon', a farmer's son from the village of Clearwater who happened to be able to hold a sword. He had no surname, no land, and his greatest wealth was an ordinary iron sword.
Now? He was Ser Jon of Clearwater, a confidant of Lord Jaime Lannister.
Now he owned land. A plot of fertile land on the outskirts of Lannisport, a direct gift from Ser Kevan. On that land stood a warm two-story stone house. Large enough to accommodate both his parents whom he had brought from the village.
Before, he never dreamed of obtaining such luxury. Now, when he had obtained it, he was grateful and made the best use of it.
He used his position to help others. He invited several of his village friends who didn't have jobs to Lannisport, giving them temporary shelter and menial jobs like cutting grass. He gave them pay he felt was high enough, because he knew what it felt like to have nothing.
His income was currently stable. As one of the few people who understood the paper-making process from scratch, his knowledge was valued in gold. He no longer worried about what to eat tomorrow.
"How about the working men, Dorian?" Jon asked while continuing to walk.
The man walking beside him was Dorian, the operational leader of the printing machines. He was a young man with good physical features and a firm jaw, giving an impression of natural authority.
"They learn fast, Ser Jon," answered Dorian with a proud smile. "At first it was quite difficult to explain the concept of letters and arranging blocks. But a few days later, they started finding the rhythm. The typesetting team, the ink team, the press team... it's like a dance, but sweatier."
Jon laughed. "I thought so too. But it is truly pleasing to see when they are all in order, isn't it?"
"Yes," agreed Dorian. "And it is even more pleasing when the results are visible. Seeing books piling up... it feels extraordinary. Knowing that our hands participated in making them is truly satisfying. It feels like there is a distinct satisfaction."
Jon nodded. He could very well understand that feeling. He remembered back to the early days of making paper with Jaime. The excitement of conquering something new other than swinging a sword.
They reached the top of the hill. The stone building stood sturdy in front of them. However, as they approached the large double doors, Jon's steps slowed.
The sound of machines was not heard.
Usually, the sound of metal clashing and wood creaking could be heard up to this road. But now, silence.
Jon exchanged glances with Dorian. Dorian's face tensed. Without a word, they quickened their pace.
When they entered the main hall of the workshop, the sight that greeted them was not productive busyness.
The printing presses stood frozen still. Ink drying on them.
The workers were not at their posts. Instead, they gathered in the center of the room, forming a tight and dense circle.
They were whispering, but the sound died instantly when the door opened and sunlight intruded along with Jon.
Heads turned. The crowd parted slowly, making way with heavy movements, as if the air in the room had turned into oil.
Jon walked through that human corridor, his face hardening.
In the center of the circle, on the cold stone floor, were two human figures.
Two men.
They were both kneeling, hands tied behind their backs with rough rope. Their condition was pitiful. Clothes torn, faces swollen, and fresh blood dripping onto the floor. They were battered, clearly having just received mob judgment.
Jon observed them coldly.
The first man was Arian, a young worker in the ink section Jon knew. His face was ruined, his eyes swollen shut, his body trembling violently.
The second man was a stranger. Bald, mid-thirty namedays, wearing merchant clothes now dirty. His face was pale as a sheet, his eyes wild like a trapped animal.
Two guards stood behind them, holding clubs, their breath heaving.
Gerry, the foreman, stepped forward from the crowd. His face was flushed red, neck veins bulging holding back explosive anger. However, he did not shout. He did not utter a single word.
The silence in the room was so thick that the sound of blood drops falling to the floor was clearly heard.
Gerry spoke, then extended his trembling hand. In his fingers dirty with ink, he clutched a crumpled piece of paper.
Jon took the paper.
He flattened it slowly. His brown eyes swept over the charcoal lines on it.
It was a sketch. A rough drawing of the printing press mechanism. Detailed. Probably accurate. With small notes on the margins about how the levers worked.
Jon lifted his face from the paper. His gaze fell on Arian who was crying silently, then shifted to the bald stranger staring at him with pure terror in his eyes.
Jon did not ask. He didn't need to ask.
He crumpled the paper in his hand. The sound of the paper being crushed sounded very loud in the quiet room.
The time of peace and luxury seemed to have just ended this morning, and it opened with something they had predicted would happen long before this.
Betrayal.
...
The full-length silver mirror standing in the corner of the room reflected a figure Rhaegar recognized, yet at the same time felt foreign.
The man in the mirror wore the finest clothes ever woven by King's Landing tailors. A tunic of pitch-black velvet that absorbed light, decorated with embroidery of the three-headed dragon in shimmering thread on the chest. A blood-red silk cloak fell from his shoulders, heavy and regal. His silver hair, usually left a little wild blown by the wind when he played the harp, was now cut slightly to be tidied and combed back, revealing a firm jawline and purple eyes full of a storm of emotions.
Rhaegar stared at the man. He stared into his own purple eyes.
This is him, thought Rhaegar. The man who starting today I will see every day.
The feeling was terrifying, like standing on the edge of a steep cliff with waves crashing below. Yet at the same time, his chest pounded hard with anticipation. There was something in the air today, an energy promising change. He was no longer the Prince waiting in his father's shadows. He was the sun rising.
Knock. Knock.
A knock on the door was heard.
Rhaegar took a deep breath, exhaling it slowly to calm his heartbeat, then turned from the mirror.
"Enter," he commanded.
The double doors were opened by a servant. Two white-cloaked figures stepped in with perfect synchronization. Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Jonothor Darry. Their faces hidden behind polished white helms, but Rhaegar could feel the same tension radiating from them.
"The time has come, Your Grace," said Arthur. His voice calm, an anchor in the middle of Rhaegar's sea of uncertainty.
"The carriage is waiting in the inner courtyard," added Jonothor.
Rhaegar nodded. No one spoke further. Everyone knew that this was a monumental day, a day where history was written. Spending energy on pleasantries felt like unnecessary waste. Silence was the best form of respect right now.
Rhaegar stepped out, flanked by his two white brothers.
They descended the stairs of Maegor's Holdfast. at the foot of the stairs, Queen Rhaella, the Queen Mother, was already waiting.
The woman smiled when she saw her son. There was burning pride in her purple eyes, erasing traces of past suffering. She wore a black and red silk dress matching Rhaegar. in her arms, little Prince Viserys, staring around with wide eyes full of curiosity.
"Mother," greeted Rhaegar softly, kissing his mother's cheek.
"You look... ready," whispered Rhaella, her voice trembling slightly with emotion.
They continued down, passing the empty Great Hall, towards the courtyard where the grand royal carriage, painted black, was waiting. Large black horses snorted, their breath becoming steam in the morning air.
"Your Grace."
Every noble, servant, and guard who saw them immediately bowed deeply. They gave way like parting water. Some couldn't hold back, cheering softly, "The Seven bless King Rhaegar!" or "Long live the King!"
Rhaegar only nodded stiffly, a thin smile fixed on his lips. He helped his mother up into the carriage, then followed inside. The door was closed from the outside, confining them in velvet luxury and momentary privacy.
The carriage began to move with a gentle jolt. Its wheels rumbled over the stones, a rhythmic and hypnotic sound.
Rhaegar sat upright, his hands gripping his own knees. He stared out the window, seeing the Red Keep walls slowly moving away.
"You look tense, Rhaegar," his mother's voice broke the silence inside the carriage.
Rhaegar turned. Rhaella was patting the back of Viserys who was starting to get sleepy.
"Of course," Rhaegar tried to laugh, but his voice sounded dry in his own ears. "This is the most historic day in my life, Mother. This will be recorded in books by Maesters, and remembered by everyone for a hundred years to come. Every movement, every word I say later... will be judged. Of course I am tense."
Rhaella smiled gently, shaking her head slightly.
"Do not worry about the Maesters or history," said Rhaella. "They will write what they want to write. Focus on the moment."
"It is hard not to think about it. The crown... its weight is not just physical."
"Indeed," Rhaella admitted. She moved Viserys to a more comfortable position. "But, you are Rhaegar. You have prepared yourself for this all your life."
"Preparation is not the same as reality, Mother," argued Rhaegar softly. "In books, being King sounds noble. But now, as this carriage approaches the Great Sept... it feels like I am heading to an execution, not a coronation."
Rhaella chuckled, a sound that surprised Rhaegar.
"Oh, Rhaegar. You are always too dramatic. That is your artist's soul speaking," teased his mother. "Execution? The people out there worship the ground you walk on. They do not bring axes, they bring flowers."
"They worship hope," corrected Rhaegar. "They hope I will fix everything instantly. Hope is a heavy burden, Mother."
"And you are strong enough to shoulder it," said Rhaella firmly. She reached out, squeezing Rhaegar's clenched hand. "Listen to me. Do not treat this as a test. Do not treat this as a trial."
"Then as what?"
"Just treat all this the same as a nameday feast," said Rhaella, her eyes twinkling mischievously. "A celebration. Today, this kingdom is reborn with you. And you will be fine. You just need to walk, smile, and let the High Septon do the boring part with oil and prayers."
Rhaegar felt the tension in his shoulders melt slightly hearing his mother's light tone.
"Just walk and smile?" he asked.
"And don't trip over your cloak," added Rhaella while winking. "That is the most important advice. The rest will flow like a song."
The carriage began to slow down. The sound from outside, which was just a faint hum, now turned into a distinct roar. Like the sound of waves hitting a cliff. It was the sound of thousands of humans.
"We have arrived," whispered Rhaegar. His heart raced again, but this time there was a little calmness there thanks to his mother.
The carriage stopped completely.
The door was knocked from outside, then opened wide by a palace servant who bowed until his nose almost touched the ground.
The scorching midday sunlight broke into the dim carriage, dazzling Rhaegar's eyes for a moment.
He squinted, blinking a few times to adjust his vision. He took a deep breath, straightened his back, and stepped out.
As his feet touched the ground and his vision became clear, his breath hitched.
There, in front of him, the Great Sept of Baelor towered brilliant white, its dome sparkling under the sun.
But it was not the building that made him transfixed.
It was the sea of humans.
...
Inside one of the interrogation cells located deep beneath the rock, there was only the sound of water dripping from the ceiling into a puddle in the corner of the room. A slow and torturous rhythm, like a countdown to madness.
Jon stood near the tightly closed iron door, his back against the cold stone wall. His face was expressionless, but his sharp eyes missed not a single detail of the grim scene before him.
In the center of the room, tied to a wooden chair nailed to the floor, sat the bald man.
His condition was far worse than when he was dragged out of the printing house this morning. His round face was now swollen shapeless, his eyes squinting due to spreading purple bruises. His lip was split, and dried blood formed a crust on his chin. He no longer looked like a panicked rat; now he looked like a lump of meat that had given up.
While Arian, the young traitor, was still languishing in another cell, crying and begging for mercy.
Ser Kevan Lannister stood in front of the prisoner.
Jon observed his master with cautious curiosity. He knew Ser Kevan as a patient and friendly man. Kevan was a good uncle to Jaime, a fair administrator for Lannisport.
But today, Jon saw another side of Kevan Lannister.
Ser Kevan's green eyes looked deeper than usual, as if the light had been pulled out of there, leaving only cold darkness. His face wrinkled, not from age, but from frustration held back with steel discipline. No friendly smile. No wise words. There was only cruelty.
"What is your name? And who ordered you?" Ser Kevan asked. His voice calm, flat, yet echoing on the stone walls with a threat more terrifying than a scream.
The man only stared at him blankly. His head tilted up powerlessly, his neck seemingly unable to support the weight of his skull anymore. His face flat, his vision blurred, perhaps from pain or perhaps because he had resigned himself.
Silence hung between them, heavy and suffocating.
"I will say it again," repeated Ser Kevan, his tone not changing a bit. Predator patience. "What is your name?"
Silence. Only the sound of dripping water answered.
Ser Kevan did not shout. He did not threaten. He only turned his head slightly to the side, staring at his personal guard standing there, a large man who had hands the size of hams.
The guard understood the signal without needing words.
He stepped forward one step, raised his heavy right hand, and swung it.
SLAP!
The sound of the slap exploded in the small room, loud and wet. The man's head was thrown to the side with violence that jerked his neck. Fresh blood sprayed from his already split lip, staining the stone floor.
He groaned softly, a pitiful sound like a wounded dog. He tried to straighten his head again, but his eyes were still blank.
"Now," said Ser Kevan, as if nothing happened. "Who ordered you to steal House Lannister secrets?"
No answer. The man only spat blood onto the floor.
SLAP!
The second slap came from the opposite direction, this time using the back of the hand. It tore the skin on his cheek.
Jon did not grimace seeing that. He did not look away. He was used to seeing violence. He was a soldier, he had seen tavern brawls, he had seen whippings for thieves. Violence was currency in this world. However, there was something different about this measured and cold violence that made him feel cold in his spine. This was not anger; this was procedure.
Ser Kevan waited again. Three seconds. Five seconds.
No answer again.
WHAM!
The guard hit again. This time with a fist to the solar plexus. He coughed violently, bending over as far as the rope bindings allowed, vomiting the contents of his empty stomach, only yellow bile fluid.
"I have all day," said Ser Kevan coldly. He stepped closer, bending down until his face was level with the man. "And I have torturers far more creative than him here. They can make you sing even without a tongue. But I prefer civilized ways. Tell me your master's name, and I will give you a quick death. Without pain."
He lifted his ruined face. His breath sounded hitching and painful. His swollen eyes stared at Kevan, but behind that pain, Jon saw something surprising.
A flash of stubbornness.
He gathered spit mixed with blood in his mouth, and with the last remaining strength, because he couldn't hold the clot in his mouth, he spat. The red liquid landed on Ser Kevan's clean leather boot.
Ser Kevan stared at the blood stain on his shoe. His face showed no anger, only cold disappointment.
"Loyalty," muttered Kevan softly. "Very rare to find in a gutter rat like you. A pity it is wasted on the wrong cause."
Kevan stepped back. He didn't hit the man again. He knew when he lost a battle, even though he would win the war. This man would not speak today. Perhaps never.
He turned, turning his back on the prisoner who now slumped limply again in his chair. He stared at Jon.
"Jon," he called.
"Ser?" Jon straightened his body.
"Increase the guard at the printing house. Double it. Check every new worker, check their backgrounds to the core," ordered Kevan, his voice sharp and alert. "This is not an ordinary thief looking for quick money. An ordinary thief would sell his mother to stop the pain. This man... he is willing to die to protect his secret."
Kevan glanced back at the silent figure.
"We are being targeted by someone who has resources, Jon. Someone who can buy loyalty this strong. That is dangerous."
"What should we do with him, Ser?" asked Jon, glancing at the broken body.
"Let him rot here," said Kevan coldly. "Give him water and stale bread. Let darkness and pain work. Maybe after a week inside the belly of Casterly Rock, his principles will start to fade."
Ser Kevan signaled his guard to watch the door, then he walked out.
Jon followed him. Before he closed the heavy iron door, he stared at the thief once more. The bald man didn't move, only his chest rising and falling weakly.
Jon closed the door with a loud thud echoing in the stone hallway. The key was turned. Leaving silence.
...
Rhaegar stepped forward, and the world seemed to split to give him way.
The roar of cheers did not stop; instead, as he began to climb the white marble stairs of the Great Sept of Baelor, the sound grew larger, swallowing the sound of bells and singing. It was the sound of hundreds of thousands of throats shouting one name, a wave of sound crashing against the walls of Rhaegar's consciousness.
On his right and left, lines of guards struggled to hold back the crowd pressing forward. The hands of the smallfolk reached out, dirty and rough, trying to touch the edge of his red cloak as if the fabric possessed magical healing powers.
Rhaegar did not retreat. He did not quicken his pace out of fear. Instead, he walked with a calm and measured rhythm. He stared at those faces, faces that were tired, yet now beaming with almost fanatical happiness. He saw a mother lifting her baby high. He saw a toothless old veteran crying with emotion.
They did not see a man who was mourning. They saw the dawn.
He reached the gate of the Great Sept. The air inside was cool and smelled of incense, a sharp contrast to the heat and dust outside. Inside, Lords and Ladies from all over the Seven Kingdoms were waiting, standing in neat rows according to the order of power. The colorful sigils of their houses, wolves, lions, roses, stags, suns, and trouts, created a mosaic of power that now bowed to him.
Rhaegar walked down the aisle. Seven statues of gods towered around the altar, their stone eyes staring down, judging in silence.
In front of the Father's altar, the High Septon waited. The old man held a crystal vial containing holy oil. Beside him, on a purple velvet cushion held by a young septon, lay the object that would change Rhaegar's fate forever.
It was the crown of Jaehaerys I, the Conciliator. A simple gold crown decorated with seven gemstones of different colors, symbolizing the Seven Gods and the unity of the realm. It was a crown of reconciliation. A crown of building. A crown of wisdom.
Rhaegar arrived in front of the altar. He knelt. His knees touched the stone floor, a position of humility before the divine before he was exalted before men.
The High Septon began reciting chanted prayers. His voice echoed in the high dome, bouncing off the marble walls.
"May the Father grant him justice..."
Cold holy oil was anointed on Rhaegar's forehead.
"May the Mother grant him mercy..."
"May the Warrior grant him strength..."
The ritual proceeded solemnly. Rhaegar let those words seep into his soul, making them a personal oath. He did not want to be a conqueror. He wanted to be a healer. He wanted his kingdom peaceful and prosperous.
Finally, the prayer was finished. The High Septon raised the golden crown high. The sunlight entering through the stained glass window refracted the colors of the gems onto the marble floor, creating a rainbow around Rhaegar.
"Rhaegar of House Targaryen, the First of His Name," cried the High Septon, his voice trembling with the grandeur of the moment. "King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men. Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm."
Rhaegar bowed his head slightly, ready to receive the burden.
Slowly, the golden circle descended.
Rhaegar held his breath, strengthening his neck, preparing to receive the heavy weight he had always imagined for years. The weight of history. The weight of his father.
Cold metal touched his skin. The crown settled on his head.
And... it wasn't as heavy as he thought.
It felt right. It felt natural. As if the crown was indeed made to be there. No pain, no pressure crushing the neck bones. Only a calm certainty.
Rhaegar let out a long breath, releasing the air he had held since he left his bedroom this morning.
"Rise, my King," whispered the High Septon.
Rhaegar stood. He turned slowly facing the audience.
His red cloak billowed. Jaehaerys's crown sparkled atop his silver hair.
The entire room held its breath for a moment, mesmerized by the figure standing there.
Then, Rhaegar observed the people who came.
He saw Tywin Lannister in the front row, clapping with a satisfied face. He saw Steffon Baratheon smiling broadly. He saw his mother, Rhaella, crying happily while hugging Viserys. He saw Arthur Dayne and Jon Connington, their swords raised high. He saw Jaime and Cersei Lannister, smiling at him.
They were all smiling.
Outside the open doors, he could hear the common people cheering happily.
Then, Rhaegar closed his eyes. Listening to the cheers calmly.
...
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